


Of Shoes and Ships and Stolen Mobile Phones

by sc010f



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-14
Updated: 2011-05-14
Packaged: 2017-10-19 09:48:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,600
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/199538
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sc010f/pseuds/sc010f
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A follow-up to <a href="http://sc010f.livejournal.com/257973.html">Business Time</a> wherein Mycroft and Lestrade have their own special day of the week. But with these men, things are never easy. Business Time does not have to be read for full enjoyment of this fic.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Of Shoes and Ships and Stolen Mobile Phones

_Mycroft_

Mycroft knows that Wednesday nights are John and Sherlock’s favorites.

He doesn’t even have to listen to the recordings of the activities in the flat to know this. He keeps John’s room free of bugs, anyway, more out of respect for the man than any desire not to know.

All Mycroft has to do is watch the CCTV footage of them leaving 221B.

John leaves first, usually to the surgery, and there’s a spring in his step. He whistles, usually. And one time, he even did a bit of a shuffle on the pavement, as if tap-dancing. Mycroft looked up his school records and found that his mother did indeed make him attend dance classes when he was six.

Sherlock leaves the flat around an hour later and typically there is a smug grin on his face. This is the grin that’s usually reserved for Doing Something Unbearably Clever or Impressing Mummy. Mycroft is impressed that John can bring that out in his brother. He’s also a bit relieved.

It’s about time Sherlock settled down.

Mycroft turns away from the monitors as his phone buzzes.

For if Wednesdays are John and Sherlock’s favorite evening, then Thursdays are his.

Even if only Anthea and Greg know.

Smiling, he reads the text he received first thing this morning.

 _Nothing on the docket. Should get an early evening?_

It should hurt him, perhaps, that Gregory can’t, or won’t, simply ask. But Mycroft knows that what they have, the unspoken rules of their relationship, asking to come over, or asking him to come over simply isn’t part of it.

It. What they do.

What nobody else knows about.

Mycroft types a response. An invitation.

 _I will cook._

A reply flashes up almost at once.

 _My lucky night._

Mycroft holds his breath. A man ever deliberative. Weighs the consequences. He can make things disappear if they become messy. Although of course, he would prefer not to.

 _I believe it is actually my lucky night, Gregory._

He presses “send” before he can have second thoughts.

The reply takes seventy-two seconds.

 _It depends on how good dinner is. I may have to have you for dessert._

Mycroft shifts in his seat and flips over to his calendar. Twenty minutes until he’s needed at Number Ten. He types:

 _Ah, that privilege is mine, Gregory. To have you in my mouth. To taste you._

This reply takes ninety-four seconds.

 _Christ, Mycroft, Donovan is right here._

A pause and then:

 _Not that it’s a problem. I love to see your lips wrapped around my cock._

It is suddenly very warm in Mycroft’s office. He types back.

 _Placing my mouth around your cock will only be the beginning, Gregory._

* * *

The duck is perfect when the bell chimes. Mycroft presses a button on the monitor on the wall and from upstairs her hears the door click open.

"I'm downstairs," he calls into the intercom before returning to the stove.

Moments later, Gregory enters, dropping his mac onto the kitchen chair.

"Christ, but that smells good," he remarks.

Mycroft allows himself a smile as he turns away from the stovetop. Kissing Gregory is one of the finer pleasures he's found his life has to offer him. What begins as a tentative greeting turns fiercely passionate within the space of seconds as Gregory groans into his mouth, allowing Mycroft to suck on his tongue. It is clearly an invitation to further intimacies later in the evening.

"Christ, but you taste good," Gregory says, somewhat short of breath as the men break apart.

"I might say the same of you," Mycroft replies.

"G'wan," Gregory laughs, brushing his forehead against Mycroft's. Gregory smells of the city and tastes of cheap coffee, but it's a combination of flavors that Mycroft would gladly savor over the best in port or champagne any day.

"Dinner?" Mycroft asks, pulling away. "Why don't you pour the wine?"

Gregory's smile lights up the kitchen. "Is that…," he asks.

"Yes, the '02 Domaine Drouhan Laurène. I thought perhaps you might enjoy it after a trying day. It pairs nicely with the duck."

He enjoys the look of ecstasy on Gregory's face as he sips the wine. It is almost as beautiful as the expression he has when he comes – unguarded joy.

"I take it you approve?" Mycroft asks.

"God, you're spoiling me," Gregory says – before you I couldn't tell Bordeaux from Cabernet and now… this is just decadent."

"It's Thursday, Gregory, I think that calls for the occasional bout with decadence." Mycroft turns back to the stove.

It is worth it to have Gregory's arms slip around him and feel his hot breath against his ear.

Mycroft closes his eyes for a moment.

Ridiculous to be a fool for love.

Lust, perhaps, is more understandable. Maybe even more forgivable.

Later, that night, in bed, he will grasp the sheets with nerveless fingers and bite back the words that threaten to spill from his lips.

 _I love you, I need, you, I want you, I want you, not just tonight, but every night, and, now, now, oh, God, Gregory, please, please, please…_

* * *

 _Gregory_

It is very, very early when Greg's mobile goes off. Greg is very comfortable, if not slightly sticky.

He blinks.

He fumbles, knocks the alarm clock off the nightstand and grabs the phone. Lying on his back and squinting at the too-bright screen he reads:

 _Kilburn. Multiple homicides. Freak would love this._

"Oh, fuck," he groans, rolling over into Mycroft's shoulder. The other man stirs.

"Again, Gregory?" Greg hears the smile in his voice and marvels how easily the man makes the transition from waking to sleeping.

"No, it's Donovan. A body. Many bodies." Greg tries to clear the sleep from his brain. Difficult when you've been shagging the most gorgeous man on the planet all night. He rolls over and squints at the phone. A new text buzzes in.

 _You need me. Say the word_

 _SH_

"And your brother," Greg grunts. "It must be bad."

Mycroft laughs in the half-light of the room.

"I will make some coffee. You _do_ have time for that and a shower," he says, pushing Greg out of the bed.

"Bossy." Greg smiles.

"Indeed," Mycroft agrees peaceably, pulling on a dressing gown.

"I'll be down in three minutes," Greg promises, kissing him.

"Go. Or else the good Sergeant Donovan will have to send a search party," Mycroft replies, suddenly rolling over on him.

It is a little more than three minutes before either man is able to get out of bed.

One of the benefits, Greg supposes, as he lathers up his hair in Mycroft's shower – he is very careful to keep his own brand of shampoo there. After Sherlock's little stunt with Donovan, Greg is very, very careful about those sorts of things – of having a lover who has the position, status, and power that Mycroft does, is the palatial shower.

The sex isn't bad either.

Well, okay, the sex is wonderful.

Life with Mycroft may be unpredictable, but Greg's schedule's not conducive to romance either. Especially these days.

The smell of coffee wafts up the stairs as Greg is pulling on his trousers. He closes his eyes and inhales deeply. Mycroft's coffee is, like just about everything else about the man, exquisite. Greg sometimes feels out of his depth, he's not the sort to worry about wine and coffee and opera, but it's worth it for the moments he gets to spend with Mycroft.

Perhaps one day, he'll be able to convince Mycroft to sit down for ninety minutes to watch the football. Or take that gorgeous man for a spin. Greg smiles to himself as he imagines how Mycroft would look in leathers, stretched over his bike.

But for now, it's nice to have somebody take care of him once in a while. Greg longs to return the favor. But for now, this relationship… if that's what it is, is probably the most successful one he's had in a while.

Even if only he, Mycroft, and Mycroft's spooky assistant know about it.

* * *

 _John_

Kilburn, first thing in the morning, is not what John had in mind when he went to bed the night before. The night before, he'd been rather happy: vacuuming the flat, arguing with Sherlock, eating dinner, arguing with him some more, and updating his blog.

A good Thursday. Not as special as Wednesdays, but you can't have everything.

Following Sherlock around, the next morning before he's had his tea, however, trying to keep him from killing Anderson, or Donovan, or Lestrade from killing him, is _definitely_ not on.

"You're all _idiots_!"

John sighs and hurries over to put himself between Sherlock and Lestrade. The DI is looking dangerous as Sherlock thrusts himself into the other man's face to argue the point.

"All right, _girls_ ," John says, using the one phrase he knows will stop both of them in their tracks. And it's true – they are like a pair of schoolgirls fighting over a pop star's autograph.

If the pop star happens to be a pair human torsos and the autograph the word "slut" carved into each of them.

Lestrade is the first to back off.

"Have it your way," he snarls. "But I'm warning you, Sherlock, if you're wrong about this…"

The threat hangs in the air. Sherlock, ever oblivious bounces away hurling over his shoulder,

"Oh I'm not wrong, please – what are you thinking? Oh, that's right, you're not thinking. You never do, do you?"

"Okay, and we're leaving now," John wrestles Sherlock out into the open and waves down a cab. It starts to rain. Perfect for a Friday.

John wishes he'd had to work at the surgery today.

Really wishes. He'd at least have been able to have a cup of tea.

"Where ware we going, anyway?" he asks once he's bundled Sherlock into the cab. The driver looks at them askance and punches the meter.

"Hm? Oh, 221B Baker Street, please." The cab jerks into traffic.

"We're not going to…"

"Oh, no, Lestrade will undoubtedly be sending a team around to arrest the florist's assistant."

"The florist's assistant? What florist's assistant?"

But Sherlock's not listening; he's rummaging through his pockets to pull out a mobile phone.

"Sherlock… who's mobile is that?" John pats his pockets just to be sure. It's certainly not Sherlock's.

"It's Lestrade's, I want to send Donovan a text and she won't give me her new number. There were hundreds of ways I could have sussed it out, but this is the most satisfying." He pauses, thumbing the keys. "There. Done, now, Gregory Lestrade, what secrets are you hiding from me?"

Grinning, Sherlock begins to prod the buttons on it, flipping through text after text.

"Boring, dull, totally wrong…"

And suddenly Sherlock falls silent.

John watches, fascinated as he goes completely pale and then flushes bright red.

"Sherlock, what on earth…" he asks, but the cab has already pulled up to Baker Street and Sherlock throws himself out of the vehicle, almost before it has stopped.

"Sherlock what the hell…" John pays the driver off and hurries after him.

Up in the flat, Sherlock is pacing, and even from the door, John can tell he's furious.

"Sherlock, what is going on?" John asks, but Sherlock doesn't answer, merely pausing to fling a cushion across the room.

John suddenly realizes he hasn't seen his gun in a few days.

"Don't move," he instructs Sherlock. "Don't… do anything."

John races upstairs and makes sure that his gun is secure, and that the bullets are also hidden, and returns to the sitting room of the flat just in time to see the knife that Sherlock usually has embedded in the mantle go flying across the room.

It buries itself between the eyes of the spray painted smiley face.

"Shit!" John squeaks. "What the _hell_?"

But Sherlock is texting now, pale with fury. John notices that there are two indentations in his cheeks, his jaw is clenched so tightly.

John is a brave man. He's taken his life in his own hands many times before. Now may be the bravest moment of his life. He leaps forward and grabs the phone.

The texts on Lestrade's mobile are as follows:

 _Nothing on the docket. Should get an early evening?_

That one's from Lestrade, obviously. The response is from a number that John recognizes. Something clenches in his gut as he reads Mycroft's reply:

 _I will cook._

Lestrade's response makes him blink and lick his lips:

 _My lucky night._

And then Mycroft's:

 _I believe it is actually my lucky night, Gregory._

He blushes as he reads the rest of the conversation. And then he reads the last text, sent only seconds ago:

 _If you are available, Gregory, I should very much like to finish the bottle of Domaine Drouhan Laurène with you this evening. I trust my brother was not too irritating?_

That wouldn't be so bad if it had not been followed up immediately by:

 _If he was, I trust I may be able to alleviate some of the strain. Perhaps a massage?_

Oh. Oh, shit.

The outgoing text is even worse.

 _If you think for one god-forsaken instant that whatever sordid sexual deviancy you two are engaging in has gone unnoticed, you have another thing coming, Mycroft._

 _SH_

Oh, holy fuck.

"Oh, holy fuck."

Sherlock is now standing by the fireplace, engaging in a staring contest with the skull. John knows it's physiologically impossible for a man to burst into flames, but he's almost convinced that Sherlock is about to.

Just then, there is the squealing of tires from the street below and a pounding on the door.

John looks at the mobile in his hand. He makes a decision.

"Sally?" he says into the phone when she picks up. "It's John Watson. Yeah. If your boss is looking for his mobile, erm, I have it. That is, it's at Baker Street. Yeah. Sherlock, and… he might want to get over here. Now."

At that inauspicious moment, Mycroft Holmes bursts into the flat, umbrella-first.

 _Sherlock_

Sherlock is only surprised that it took Mycroft one-hundred seventy-two seconds to come bursting into the flat, umbrella-tip first.

He turns, glares at his brother and waits for the first volley.

"The phone, Sherlock."

Sherlock chooses not to respond, merely stares daggers.

"The _phone_."

"Testy, are we, Mycroft?" Sherlock asks, curling his lip just so. The one thing, he knows, that completely gets on Mycroft's tits is to be told, not that he's fat, but that he's losing his temper. "Temper, temper."

"You have no right, no right at all to interfere in my private life. Much less pass judgment on my behavior."

"Oh, please, Mycroft," Sherlock scoffs, "you can't seem to keep your hands off of my copper. I have plenty of right to pass judgment on your sexual inadequacies."

"He's not _your_ copper as you so vulgarly put it."

"Pervert."

"That's rich, coming from you," Mycroft snarls. Sherlock notices his fingers curling around the umbrella handle.

"I'm not the one who spies on his brother. Do you like to watch John fuck me? You wretched homunculus? "

"What in the _hell_ is going on?"

The brothers are nose to nose at this point when a new voice rings through the flat.

"This doesn't concern you, Lestrade," Sherlock shouts, flexing his wrist and grabbing at the skin on the back of Mycroft's hand.

"I will explain later," Mycroft grits out over his shoulder, returning the favor to Sherlock. It hurts, but Sherlock has always won this game.

"What… are you two _pinching_ each other?" John demands.

Sherlock turns to John and glares at him, a thousand retorts springing to mind and vanishing in an instant as Mycroft twists his thumb. Obviously he's been practicing. Probably on the Russian envoy.

"You really are an idiot, aren’t you?" He asks scathingly.

Which is the point that Mycroft chooses, of course, the underhanded, sneaking bastard, to let go of Sherlock's wrist and tackle him, preparatory to a headlock.

Sherlock retaliates – going for the time-honored (one must respect the tradition) wedgie.

Its effect is slightly ruined by Mycroft's grabbing his fist and driving them into his stomach.

"Why are you hitting yourself?" Mycroft demands. "Why are you hitting yourself?" The room begins to swim a bit and Sherlock grunts as he struggles to maintain his balance.

"This is ridiculous," Sherlock hears John mutter. "Come on, Greg. When they're like this there's nothing you can do."

"They going to be okay, you reckon?" Sherlock can hear the awe. Typical – leave it to Greg, the middle of three brothers to be gawking at a scuffle. Sherlock gains purchase on the carpet and tries to take a breath, preparatory to kneeing Mycroft in the back of the leg.

"Do you want to call the riot squad?" John sounds nothing if not amused. Black dots are beginning to form in front of Sherlock's eyes as Mycroft tightens his grip and drives his fist more firmly into Sherlock's solar plexus.

"Erm… no. But… should we _do_ something?"

"I don't know about you, but I could use a drink after this morning," John replies. And dammit, he's definitely trying not to laugh.

"Pub lunch, then?"

There's a pause, or at least Sherlock _thinks_ there's a pause – he can't really hear over the rush of blood in his ears as Mycroft twists his grip on his neck.

He _does_ , however hear the door slam.

He brings his knee up to as close to Mycroft's leg as he can.

Mycroft yelps and releases his hold on Sherlock's neck.

Sherlock pushes him into the sofa and jumps on his back, pulling his hair.

Mycroft rolls away and the brothers fall to the floor, kicking, biting, and punching.

Just as Sherlock's got Mycroft's ear firmly in his teeth (never mind that Mycroft has a hold of his balls via his own shorts) ready to bite down, the door opens and Mrs Hudson shrieks in horror.

The rest of the afternoon descends to hell rather quickly after that.

* * *

"Please tell me you have something drinkable in the place." Mycroft's voice is muffled by the packet of frozen peas he is holding to his face.

Sherlock rummages in the freezer.

"Stolichnaya, I'm afraid," he apologizes. "John thought it was appropriate to drink while he made me watch some dreadful show about vulgar women who smoke a great deal and call each other 'sweetie, darling'." His lip curls.

Mycroft huffs through his peas.

"He's quite the influence on you, isn't he?"

"Don't start again," Sherlock snarls. "Do you want another Indian burn?"

"I'm not starting. Weevil."

"Maggot."

"Dung beatle."

"Mugwort."

"That's not even _real_." Mycroft complains as Sherlock sinks to the floor next to him and hands him the still-cold bottle of vodka.

"It is. It's wormwood," Sherlock answers immediately. _Serves Mycroft right for no reading the Harry Potter books. Must remember to thank John._

"Well we can't all be _herbology_ experts, can we?"

"What experts?" Sherlock turns to his brother and regrets it as his pants tighten around his balls and up his arse.

"Tell me, do you even _read_ books? Or just the criminal pages of the newspaper?"

There's no fight in either of them as they trade drinks from the Stolichnaya bottle and bicker and wait for John and Lestrade to return.

When they do, there will be explanations. And John will probably make him clean the fridge or something equally vile as punishment.

* * *

Sherlock's suppositions prove correct. Both Lestrade and John are _very_ unhappy with them. But both are sufficiently lubricated from their lunch that it's not quite as bad as he feared.

 

However, both Lestrade and John shout at them for a good portion of the afternoon. Lestrade does rather more shouting about things like "openness and honesty in a relationship" and John about "respecting the boundaries and rights of others".

All in all, it's really quite dull. Sherlock begins to wish for John's "drinking headache", but apparently he stayed away from the cider this afternoon. Sherlock and Mycroft both stand in the middle of the sitting room, trying to look properly contrite as Lestrade and John lecture them. It goes fairly well until Sherlock pokes Mycroft in the side with his good index finger and Mycroft tries to kick him in the arse when Lestrade looks away. Sherlock retaliates by sucking on his finger and trying to push it into Mycroft's ear. Mycroft shoves him away.

John cottons on to what they're doing, and makes them sit on opposite sides of the room.

Sherlock flashes obscene hand gestures at Mycroft behind John's back until Lestrade comes over and threatens to cuff him.

Mycroft sticks his tongue out at Sherlock.

Lestrade eventually takes Mycroft back to his flat to patch him up while John makes Sherlock tidy the flat, including throwing out the armadillo he managed to pick up from that dodgy zoo in Sheffield.

Sherlock thinks it's distinctly unfair (Mycroft started it after all), but he doesn't argue. Too much.

Because while he'll never admit it, he's _glad_ that Mycroft seems to have found somebody stable (and sane, well, sane enough to want to date _Mycroft_ ). But even more so, he's thrilled that John cares enough to get cross with him, but seems to love him enough not to leave when ridiculous things involving his brother happen.

Because ridiculous things tend to happen when Mycroft gets involved in Sherlock's life.

Suffice it to say, he knows that John's not going to let him get near any public pools or memory sticks any time soon.

And that makes it all worth while.

**Author's Note:**

> Not mine, no money.
> 
> Many thanks to the usual crew of awesome: bluestocking79, annietalbot, pyjamapants, and machshefa!


End file.
